Four seconds, same corner

The nod. Four seconds. Voss didn't smirk, didn't mouth off, didn't do anything. Just stood there and looked at me like he was waiting for me to flinch. I didn't. I wanted to. By the second second I wanted to. By the fourth I knew he knew I wanted to. He nodded once. I nodded back. The whole conversation is sitting in my chest like a coin I swallowed sideways and can't cough up.

I didn't open the Manila envelope tonight either. Same spot on the counter, same corner, tucked under the cookbook. I walked past it maybe eight times. Each time my hand started and I made it stop. There's a version of me who opens it. There's a version of me who doesn't. Right now I'm in the middle of those two men and I keep picking the one who trains instead. If I open it I become the kind of man who knows. I'd rather be the kind who trains through not-knowing. That's a real thing I'm telling myself. I hear it.

The line. It's out in the group now. Someone typed it and now it's just what I am on paper for every man in that room. Lev had the mic hot and wanted me to swing at it. I didn't swing. Felt right. Also felt like being called something and just standing there letting it land.

The column. Quill is still in it. Heavier. Younger. Cleaner. Found my jaw hinge in round two of a round he asked me for. Tonight I added Voss. He held the gaze. He's the kind of man who doesn't know what it's like to blow up the first thing and start over.

Zoe hasn't called. She will. I want her to and I don't.